And Life to Everything
by MandaPanda2
Summary: Each chapter is a mini story inspired by a piece of music. There's no real sequence to (or, in most cases, relationships between) the chapters. The story's title is inspired by a quote often attributed to Plato.
1. Always Something There to Remind Me

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.  
Rating: T  
Genre: Drama  
Spoilers: Whole series  
Summary: Each chapter is a mini story inspired by a piece of music. There's no real sequence to (or, in most cases, relationships between) the chapters. The story's title is inspired by a quote often attributed to Plato.

* * *

Chapter One: "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me"

 _May 1997_

As someone who was _always_ punctual, and went _out_ of his way to be so, Gregory invariably found himself annoyed when someone he was due to meet was late. Tardiness was a sign of incompetence. A signal which suggested the other person did not value his time. Not to mention, he detested waiting for someone _else_. He had no patience for it.

Tonight's offender?

His wife.

He glared, feeling on display as the only person at a table _clearly_ set for two in the middle of Grenadine's. Their nearly twenty-five-year marriage was clouded with infidelity and dysfunction. He could _practically_ hear the whispers from the other table. _They should have divorced years ago, you know. Poor Gregory – can you imagine putting up with a wife like that?_ _Looks like Olivia's fallen off the wagon…again._

Olivia _knew_ he hated waiting. Furthermore, he rescheduled a meeting with a jury consultant for Elaine's upcoming trial to be here. Waiting. For. HER. His watch hung heavy on his wrist, its weight like iron chains, as he resisted the urge to check the time. _Again_. There was no bother. It would only show what he already knew: Olivia was late. Almost thirty minutes late.

 _I should just leave_.

He paused as a chill raced down his spine. Part of him was disappointed the old antagonism could rear its head so quickly. Just a few weeks ago, he _would_ have left. Hell, he wouldn't even have agreed to have dinner at Grenadine's with his wife a short time ago. But, things had changed between them. Sean's surgery had seen to it. Now, they lived in such a way that he did look forward to seeing her across the restaurant's table. Now, they lived in such a way that he rescheduled his meeting with the jury consultant _without_ a second thought. Now, they lived in such a way that he eagerly anticipated having her to himself for a few hours.

And now, she was _late_.

The other part of him agreed with the raging voice that hissed from the darkest corner of his mind. He _should_ leave. He should leave her to find the table empty. He should leave her to stand in the middle of Grenadine's, feeling like a goddamned _fool_. He should leave her to withstand all the whispers.

With an annoyed inhale, Gregory reached for his glass of wine. The thirty-year-old Pichon Lalande may have been the only good thing to come from this _fiasco_ of an evening. He raised the crystal glass, intending to let the nose distract him from his wife's absence, when he heard someone clear their throat. He looked up and found the waiter standing near his left elbow. Instantly, he felt a flood of irritation go through him. The young kid _clearly_ had no concept of what it meant to see someone waiting. This was the fourth time he'd been back to the table. As he lowered the glass, the waiter placed a glass of scotch on the table. "What's that?" he asked bluntly.

The waiter leaned down, his mouth oddly – and, _uncomfortably_ – close to Gregory's ear. "Compliments of the lady at the bar."

Gregory looked up and followed the waiter's gaze. The bar was on the other side of the restaurant, close to where the host stood. Dim lights shone down from overhead, glowing on the warm wood. The woman sat at one of the high stools, one shapely leg crossed over the other. He felt their eyes meet before she smirked and turned away, her posture perfect.

He looked down at the scotch. He was angry. He hated waiting. He hated that Olivia made him feel like a fool. Slowly, he placed the glass of Bordeaux aside and pushed his chair back from the table. As he stood, redoing the buttons of his suit's coat, he murmured, "Recork the bottle." He ignored the clearly amused grin the kid sent him as he reached for the scotch and turned for the bar.

As he crossed the restaurant, the music he barely noticed at his now-abandoned table became louder. A pianist sat in the corner, next to the bar, a jazzy melody resonating beneath his warm baritone. The woman's back was still to him, her hair swept up to reveal the tantalizing flesh of her neck. He cleared his throat, his hand touching the back of the empty stool next to her. "May I?" She glanced up, her eyes flashing as she smirked again and nodded. He slid onto the seat next to her and placed the glass of scotch between them. "Thank you for the drink."

She turned slightly, her body leaned in towards him as she said, "You're welcome."

He raised the glass, the single ice cube clinking against the crystal. "Cheers," he said softly. She nodded, repeated him in a breathy sigh, and watched him closely as their glasses touched.

As he sipped the scotch and let the alcohol warm his chest, she lowered her glass. "I noticed you when I walked in." His eyes turned up, watching the woman over the rim of his glass, as she continued, "And, I thought to myself, 'That's a man who doesn't look like he dines alone'."

He ruefully chuckled into his glass before he set it back on the bar. "I'm not. Not usually."

"It sounds as if there's a 'but' coming."

Gregory leaned in, catching a trace of her perfume. "But, my wife stood me up."

She clicked her tongue and shook her head sadly. "No-class broad."

With a deep-felt laugh that was atypical of him, he turned to her and felt their knees brush together. The laughter was an odd sensation after the blinding anger which coursed through him only moments ago. His hand brushed against her kneecap, his fingers whistling against her silk stockings. "I don't think my wife would describe herself that way."

"That's because you're sitting here with me. _Not_ her."

His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth as her words sunk in. Their old way of living was a bright red light before him, flashing urgently. Beyond the light was the point of no return. He was angry. He hated waiting. He hated that Olivia made him feel like a fool. "Yes," he replied, moving past the point of no return. "Our marriage…has been less than perfect at times.".

She nodded, reaching for her drink. "Mine too. I'm here because my husband is furious with me."

As her head went back, his eyes watched the string of pearls and diamonds clinging to her throat. A larger pearl at the center rested in the hollow of her throat and he found himself suddenly desiring to brush it aside. To feel the flesh of her throat against his fingers. To feel her throat vibrate as she breathed. Slowly, she looked back at him, a smile dancing on her lips. Her smile suggested she knew _exactly_ what he was thinking. "But, enough about _them_ ," she said softly, her fingers dancing over the back of his hand.

The opening notes of a familiar song drifted between them and he looked up, his hand falling away from her knee. He hadn't heard it in years. "Let me guess," he heard the woman say as he watched the pianist began to sing, "it's _your_ song. Yours and your wife's."

 _And every step I take recalls  
How much in love we used to be_

He smirked to himself as he reached for his scotch and turned back to her. "Not exactly," he replied, his words echoing in the well of the glass.

She leaned in, her eyebrow arched as she placed her hand on his thigh. A pulse went through him as their eyes met, her palm burning through the material of his pants. "Not exactly?"

"Mr. Richards?" Gregory looked up and saw Julius, the maître d', at his side. The older man wore an expression of deep concern as he glanced between the woman and himself. "I noticed you and Mrs. Richards weren't at your table." He felt Olivia take her hand off his thigh as she turned into her glass, choking back laughter. "Is something not to your satisfaction?"

He stood up, resting his hand on Olivia's shoulder. "As it turns out, Julius, neither of us is very hungry."

"Not hungry?" the older man asked incredulously as Olivia exclaimed, "But, darling-"

"Put everything from the table and the bar on my tab. Also, what's-his-name was going to recork the Pichon Lalande and-"

"It's here," he interjected, holding up a slim box with the barely touched bottle of wine.

"Excellent. Have the valet bring our cars around."

The older man nodded, pocketed the bills Gregory passed him, and turned away as quickly as he appeared. Gregory put the box on his abandoned chair as he turned to his wife. "But, darling," she insisted, "I haven't eaten yet!"

He leaned in, his hand trailing down her back to briefly graze her rear. "After your 'come hither' routine, there's _no_ way I'm sitting through several courses of nonsense." No, not now. Not after the way her little game turned him on. Either they left now or they were going to embarrass themselves in the coat check closet.

Her blue eyes flashed as she glanced up and slowly slid off the stool. He knew that flush in her neck. That desperateness behind the way she quickly licked her lips. That urgent way her body pressed against his own, her hips against his groin. Her forearms pressed against him as she splayed her hands on his chest and his molded to her hips. "I _am_ sorry I was late," she whispered, her apology dripping with sincerity as she looked up at him. "I know you hate waiting. But, my last meeting went far longer than planned and-"

He leaned in, his lips against hers as he kissed her for the first time since they left the house that morning. She pressed herself closer and he felt her hands curl around the lapels of his suit coat as she drew him in. This was the balm to the blinding anger from earlier: her presence. The way her body felt in his arms. The way her lips felt against his own. He squeezed her hips and he felt the way she inhaled her gasp. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry you're going to bed hungry," he growled before he stepped back.

Hungry, but satisfied. Mutually.

Olivia tilted her head and smirked as he took the wine box in one hand and her hand with the other. "Did you _really_ remember the song?" she asked as he led them out of the restaurant.

He nodded, feeling her fingers lace through his own. "It was the morning after your first time staying the night." He was living in a condo at the marina club then. After their relationship ignited more than a week earlier, he brought her home, curious to see what waking with her next to him would feel like. She wasn't like his other girlfriends, the ones he never let spend the night in his bed. But, with her, he couldn't get enough. He had seen her every night since they had spoken at Bette's party. It wasn't just lust, although that _was_ a part of it. No, it was the feeling that she was somehow an inherently _different_ woman in his life. However, despite his intentions, he had woken to an empty bed and the rich aroma of fresh coffee perfuming the air. "You were in the kitchen, singing along to it on the radio, as you tried to make breakfast."

"Darling, I _did_ make breakfast," she insisted as he held open the restaurant's door for her. They stepped out into the warm night and he hooked his arm around her waist. "I can't do much in the kitchen, but I could _always_ make coffee and boil an egg."

He chuckled, his arm tight around her as they reached the valet stand. A moment later, he felt her hand slip beneath his suit coat to rub his back. "Oh, and Liv," he began softly, as if he was unfazed, " _no-class broad_?"

She giggled and glanced up, her hand still as it pressed into the small of his back. The amusement shining in her eyes made him grin as she admitted, "I heard it on an episode of _Hart to Hart_ years and years ago. I always wanted the chance to use it."

Gregory rolled his eyes as he pulled her in, their chests flush together. " _Hart to Hart_?" he scoffed as she shrugged bashfully. With a soft laugh, her fingertips danced along his jaw. Out the corner of his eye, he saw her car pull up, followed promptly by his. "Let me drive you home," he murmured against her lips.

"But, darling, my car-"

"I'll send Tim back for it in the morning. The kid needs something to do since he's not driving you around anymore."

She watched him for a long moment, her brow arched as a thoughtful expression swept over her face. "Is your car going to run _out_ of gas?" she wondered.

He shrugged as the valet leapt out of the drivers' seat and came around to open the passenger door of his car. He still wanted her as much as he did on the night of their first date all those years ago. That night when he slipped the car out of gear and let it jerk to a stop on a deserted ocean-access road outside of town. "It might," he murmured, remembering the way her hot breath felt against his neck all those years ago as the low sound of music from the car's radio gave him away.

With a sigh, she slipped from his embrace and sauntered over to his waiting car. As she did, she reached up and slowly pulled out the clip holding her hair up. A groan rose in his throat and he bit his lip, watching as she reached up and tousled the newly freed hair. Then, she peeked over her shoulder, flashed him a coquettish smile, and slipped into the passenger seat.

* * *

 _A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "(There's) Always Something There to Remind Me" (written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David)._


	2. Blue, Red and Grey

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

 _A/N #1: This chapter is part of the Evelyn series of stories._

* * *

Chapter Two: "Blue, Red and Grey"

 _November 1998_

Olivia sighed as she walked into the house, letting her leather briefcase slip from her hand and crash to the floor. She leaned back against the front door and closed her eyes, letting the peace and silence of the house wash over her. The calendar-year-end financial meetings _always_ left her with a raging headache. A small part of her hoped that _this_ year, with her still working most the week from home, she could attend remotely. She had already been looking forward to leaving her end of the conference call muted. But, the Chief Financial Officer had other plans for her participation. "Bloody front and center," she muttered as she gently massaged her temples. Her head still pounded from all the figures and dollar amounts he rattled off during their discussion.

 _"Are you alright, Mrs. Richards?"_

She opened her eyes and saw Rose at the base of the stairs. With another sigh, she pushed away from the door and shook her head. "Just a…very _long_ meeting." The maid nodded and shifted the basked of laundry to her hip. "Is Evy still napping?"

"I'm not sure." Olivia's brow furrowed as she followed her up the stairs, a question dancing on her lips, as Rose continued, "Mr. Richards is in the nursery."

"Gregory's home?" she asked, peeking down at her wrist. Her slim white gold watch showed it was just after one. Gregory was _rarely_ ever home this early. Her frown deepened as she stepped onto the second floor, passing Rose. Despite Mason's eager promises more than a year ago that her husband's transition to the Global Chair of Criminal Defense could take time, the reality had been _quite_ different. He was thrust into the role seemingly overnight. She had lost count of how many international trips Gregory had made in the last eighteen months. Not to mention, he was _still_ seeing through several open cases that he had taken on prior to the promotion.

Her steps slowed as she neared the nursery and heard his voice. He was singing. She came to a complete stop, her hand dancing against the door jamb, as her ears strained to listen.

 _I like every second  
So long as you are on my mind_

She folded her arms against her chest as she leaned against the wall. His voice was low and she knew instantly their toddler was asleep in his arms. Slowly and quietly, she peered around the door jamb. Gregory was in the rocking chair, gently gliding back and forth as Evy slept soundly against his chest. With tentativeness, she stepped into the nursery and quietly neared them. The floor was carpeted, but he still looked up as if he heard her footsteps. She inhaled sharply when she saw the expression on his face. The deep lines of exhaustion were a sharp counterpoint to the soft and soothing sound of his voice.

"What were you singing to her?" she asked softly, letting an easy question give him the moment she knew he needed to gather his thoughts. Gregory's voice transitioned from singing to humming as she kneeled next to him, her hand on his forearm. It wasn't an accident he came home early and immediately sought shelter in their child's sunshine-yellow nursery. Something happened. Something he needed to let their child distract him from dealing with right away.

"The Who," he murmured as he turned back to Evy. The baby's cheeks were tinged rosy as she slept against him. She rubbed his arm with one hand as her other reached out, tucking the receiving blanket around the baby. She looked up, finding his eyes heavy and exhausted, as he continued, "Everyone likes the Who."

With a small smile, she nodded and took his hand. "You're home early," she whispered.

He nodded and squeezed her hand as he turned back to the baby. Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed a kissed to Evy's forehead. A moment later, he stood slowly and crossed the room to the crib. She stood, watching as he lay the baby down. This wasn't a good sign. This wasn't normal. Not for Gregory. He turned back around after winding the mobile and sighed into his palms as he rubbed his face. "Darling?" she murmured as he took her arm and led her from the nursery into the hall.

He closed the door to the nursery and turned to her. "Travis Jordan was taken off life support this morning." Her jaw dropped as he looked up and explained, "He died less than hour later."

"Oh, Gregory." She hadn't wanted him to take this case. But, two years ago, when a celebrity athlete killed his girlfriend and injured his then four-year-old son enough to leave him in a coma, she and Gregory were barely speaking. There was no way they could have managed a discussion about why he _shouldn't_ have taken the case. She frowned, her headache elevated with a new level of stress as he sighed again. "What does this mean?"

He sighed deeply as he reached for her hand. "The District Attorney will get a continuance so they can add a second murder charge."

She shook her head and reached out, wrapping her arms around him. The dead girlfriend's mother had been an almost daily fixture on the L.A. news stations. Now, with the little boy's death, the firestorm would only kick up. She felt him grip her back and felt the deep exhale which went through his entire body. "Can you get out of it?"

"Olivia…" he sighed as he pulled back slightly and shook his head.

She closed her eyes and hugged him closer. The stubborn part of him would insist on seeing the case through to the bitter end. The victory-seeking part of him would insist on achieving a not guilty verdict for his odious client. She shivered, wondering about the type of person who could beat their child into a coma. She and Gregory had been many things during the childhoods of their two older children, but they had never been _that_. They had _never_ crossed the unforgiveable line of violence against their children.

But, Gregory knew that line. He knew what it had been like to be the little boy with a violent father. This case was _too_ close to his childhood with Bruce. He should _never_ have taken it. With her cheek pressed to his, she whispered in his ear, "Recuse yourself." She had spent too many years as a lawyer's wife. She had learned one or two things from him over the course of their marriage.

"Liv-"

She knew that tone of voice. She knew what was coming next. He wasn't a quitter. "Gregory, that man _beat_ his child." She pulled back and opened her eyes. He watched her carefully, his poker face masking any reaction he had. "What if it was Evy or-"

"It _wasn't_. Evy's fine," he murmured, cupping her face.

She shook her head, reaching up for his hands. "You aren't on _his_ side." He stiffened and she felt his fingers tremble against hers. "You're on that little boy's." His eyes flickered and she squeezed his hands. "The little boy whose father beat into a coma. The one who couldn't protect himself." She held her hands over his heart as she whispered, "The little boy who could've been _you_." He inhaled sharply and she reached up, her palm against his cheek. "You wouldn't be this upset if you weren't furious."

"Olivia, I _cannot_ just walk out on my client. It doesn't work like that."

She shook her head, her fingers combing through his hair. "You'll think of something. You always do." He sighed and glanced away. She pressed against his chest, letting his arms go around her. "That horrible man doesn't deserve you. But, that little boy- that little boy _does_."

* * *

 _A/N #2: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Blue, Red and Grey" (written by Pete Townshend)._


	3. Life on Mars?

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Three: "Life on Mars?"

 _September 1973_

Settling is for losers.

That was the last thing Gregory remembered saying to Olivia.

He gasped, sucking air into his tortured lungs. His head bounced against the leather headrest as she slumped against him. His ears roared, flush with the sound of his still-thundering heart. A moment later, he felt her panting breath against his neck. Her hands, which had been clenched around his shoulders, fell away as her head turned into the hollow of his throat. From the vaguest recesses of his brain, he registered that she fit perfectly. _They_ fit perfectly.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and gazed up. His vision was foggy, the ceiling of the car's interior greeting him as if nothing profound just occurred in the backseat. His hands tightened and he realized they were still molded to her hips. He felt her shift, her body twitching against his as she slipped even closer. The line between their bodies dissolved to near non-existence.

Then, as if a blanket dropped over them, the roar in his ears fell shockingly silent. He blinked as newly heard sounds greeted him for the first time. From far away was waves crashing on the deserted stretch of the beach. Far nearer was Olivia's shallow gasping as she sat in his lap. And, somewhere in between, was the distant sound of the car's radio. It was low, almost as if they had left it on as an afterthought. With a strong inhale, he closed his eyes again. The radio. The goddamned car radio. The piano and guitar swelled as Bowie wailed, the song hitting peak crescendo before it came down from the chorus. One of them must have kicked it on as they climbed – _tumbled_ – into the backseat.

Her hands pressed against his chest as she pushed herself up. From the way she gasped, it must have taken a profound level of effort to make the motion happen. Slowly, he met her eyes. Her glacier blue irises were sharp as she watched him closely. And, he said nothing, as her eyes burned into him. No doubt she saw _everything_ about him in that moment. A man who spun fantastical tales about his court cases, hoping to impress her. A man who lied about his car running out of gas. A man who fucked his dates in the backseat of his '72 Jag.

She reached up, her cheeks and throat flushed, as the back of her hand grazed his forehead. A moment later, he felt her fingers comb through his hair. His scalp tingled as her fingertips brushed through his sodden hair and she sighed. Her eyes burned into his as she shifted in his lap and, a heartbeat later, he saw a pleased smirk curl her mouth. " _But the film is a saddening bore_ ," she whispered in perfect time with the song, " _cause I wrote it ten times or more_ -"

He cupped her face and drew her in, kissing her. He wanted her. Again. And again. And again. Her body pressed against his as he tasted sweat on her lips. Sweat and desire, he realized, as she moaned against him, her arms tight around his neck. His arms were like vises around her as he flipped her beneath him, her legs immediately curling around his hips. She reached up, forcing his shirt apart as she wrapped her arms around his torso.

* * *

 _A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Life on Mars?" (written by David Bowie)._


	4. Gretchen am Spinnrade

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Four: "Gretchen am Spinnrade"

 _December 1993_

Olivia sat up expectantly as the applause flittered away, watching closely as the soprano moved closer to the grand piano. She glanced down at the program. This piece was the last one before intermission. Next to her, she felt Gregory shift and she resisted the urge to turn to him. Years ago, after discovering how much she enjoyed the opera, she would indulge his pouts and his soft sighs of boredom. He would indulge her these nights. Now, she wouldn't bother. There was no point. He wouldn't look at her, the way he _used_ to. He wouldn't smile back, the way he _used_ to. He wouldn't wink, the way he _used_ to.

Nothing was as it once was.

Except this.

She never cancelled their season tickets with the opera. He never commented on it. She still put on her gowns and diamonds. He still waited for her at the base of the staircase in his tuxedos.

He still indulged her.

For some reason.

She sighed, listening as the pianist evoked an urgent tempo from the keys. This year's Christmas gala was different. The leading soprano selected the program, a pastiche of arias and lieder instead of the standard hymns and carols. _I'll leave those to your children's and grandchildren's Christmas pageants_ , she announced at the beginning of the act. Not their children though. Caitlin was of the age where she voluntarily gave up choir and music lessons for trips to the mall and her friend's homes. Sean, vacillating between childhood games and the newfound maturity Gregory insisted upon, chose debate and baseball as his extracurricular activities this school year.

She glanced away, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth as the music played on. She wondered how much longer Sean would continue to give into Gregory. It was only a matter of time before he blew up, maybe for good. Whatever closeness existed between them when Sean was a child seemed to diminish with each passing day.

As for their relationship – their _marriage_ – it had diminished to a mere flicker of candlelight.

A chill raced down her spine and she looked up as the soprano's voice rose, swollen with heartache. She swallowed hard, her eyes riveted to the tiny woman. She was gazing vacantly into the audience, her eyes fixed somewhere between the Grand Tier and the Loge. But, her hands were clenched in tight fists as she slowly raised them. A moment later, they covered her heart. And, still, the piano, relentlessly pacing the background, buoying the pain in her voice.

Her vision danced as her gloved hands fumbled with the program, the typeface muted against the crème-colored paper and the dim lighting in the opera house. Her heart raced, the urgency of the piano coursing through her, as she blinked against the words.

 _Gretchen, the poor girl, who was hopelessly in love with Faust…_

 _Mephistopheles, the Devil's agent, who tarnished their romance after a bet with God…_

 _Faust, who seduced Gretchen with jewels and riches, but lost her…_

Gretchen. Mephistopheles. Faust.

Olivia. Del. Gregory.

Their unholy trio. It was melodramatic to think that, but then again, _she_ was melodramatic. At least that was one of the accusations Gregory liked to throw at her whenever they fought. But, she would never be free of them. _Either_ of them. Del, who fucked her in the shadows of the night. Gregory, who ignored her in the glaring light of the day.

She gasped and looked up, tears stinging her eyes. The soprano's voice rose slowly, but steadily. Her eyes widened, the high note of the crescendo ringing in her ears. Her chin trembled as the soprano placed her hands over her temples, the piano thundering through them as if they were one. The singer's eyes widened as the emotion spilled over, her head shaking at the futility of it all as she crumbled into herself.

Olivia knew the pain in her voice. She knew the contained hysteria. She knew the heartache. She knew the feeling of being damned. She knew the helplessness. She knew the despair. She knew the pain of remembering the way it once was. She knew the hopeless of the day-to-day.

The unending hope.

The ever-present pain.

She gripped the armrests of her seat, her chest vibrating from the soprano's last high note. The piano slowed and changed key as the soprano's shaking head came to a stop. Then, in a moment that stopped Olivia's thundering heart, she turned her gaze to the audience sitting in the Orchestra section. Her trembling lips parted, her fingers bearing into the polished wooden arms of her seat. Their eyes met as her voice dropped, pitiful and heartbroken, as she sang the last two lines of the piece.

 _Mein ruh' ist hin  
Mein herz ist schwer_

The thunderous applause around her stung as the soprano held her gaze for a long moment before she looked away. Like a mother returning to her eager children, she looked out and smiled, her frosted blonde hair glowing in the lights. She clasped her hands to her heart and curtsied, her head lowered. For her, it was over. For her, the nightmare was already forgotten.

Mein ruh' ist hin.

But, for Olivia, who sat numbly as Gregory and the audience around her came to their feet for a standing ovation, the nightmare wasn't over. The nightmare was life. The pain was unending. She closed her eyes and lowered her face, ignoring the enthusiastic shouts of " _Brava!_ ".

Mein herz ist schwer.

Instead, she remembered the way burgeoning heartache gave way to hysteria and then gave way to resignation as she looked down at the libretto in the program.

 _My peace is gone  
My heart is heavy_

There was no hope.

There was nothing.

* * *

 _A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Gretchen am Spinnrade" (composed by Franz Schubert, libretto by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)._


	5. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Five: "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes"

* * *

 _A/N #1: This chapter is part of the Stardust series of stories._

* * *

 _October 2001_

Gregory's eyes opened a crack as the mattress shifted, the sheets slipping as she sat up. A puff of cool air danced across his legs and he frowned, regretting the loss of the warmth. "Did you read my article?" he heard her ask.

"Officially, no."

"Unofficially?"

He sighed, opening his eyes all the way to gaze up at the ceiling. In the sudden silence, he could feel her waiting. "I glanced over it," he murmured, rubbing his face awake.

"And?"

Christ. He flung the sheet off and pushed himself up, swinging his legs off the bed. "I'm not your editor," he grumbled as he reached for his boxer shorts.

"No. You're not. But-"

He stood, pulling up his shorts. "But, what?"

"I thought you'd be…curious."

* * *

 _"Before we start, I have a question."_

 _"What about?"_

 _"Who asked you to do this story?"_

 _"Lady Lavenham, I don't quite-"_

 _A throaty chuckle. "Vanessa, you can call me Olivia."_

 _"Ohh-kay. Olivia. I'm not sure what you're asking."_

 _Brief pause. "Was it Gregory?"_

 _A long moment of silence. "Gregory is the owner of The Sentinel, but he's not my editor._ _I_ _choose my stories."_

 _"Why me then?"_

* * *

He turned around as Vanessa slipped back into her dress. "Curious about what?"

She shrugged as she crossed the space between them, brushing her mass of curls over one shoulder. As she turned around, presenting him with her back, she continued, "Olivia, of course."

Gregory's jaw tightened as he reached out and firmly pulled up her dress' zipper. "I hear enough about her from our children."

She glanced over her shoulder, her thick curls framing her face. "It's funny," she said softly as her fingers brushed against his bare chest. "If you listen to the tapes of the interview, she actually asked if you-"

"I don't plan on listening to the tapes, thank you," he said as he brushed past her, reaching for his pants.

As he stepped into them, he heard her say, "She's curious about you. You're curious about her-"

He shook his head as he reached for his shirt. "I'm _not_ curious about her."

"-And, the two of you don't speak."

"Well," he began, tucking his shirttails into his pants, as she stood behind him, "that's _generally_ how divorces work."

Her chest pressed against his back as her arms snaked around his waist, locking tight. A moment later, he felt her chin against his shoulder. "For you and Annie, maybe." He couldn't help the involuntary eye roll which occurred anytime his second ex-wife's name came up. "But, it's different with Olivia, isn't it?"

* * *

 _"Over the last 18 months, you've dramatically expanded WHOC. You've acquired nearly a half-dozen local stations from here to San Diego. You're one of the few female owners of a multimillion-dollar business. You're a CEO and a countess. You're-"_

 _"I thought my lawyers made it clear my personal life wasn't to be a focus of the interview."_

" _It's not a focus. But, Americans_ _love_ _British royalty. My readers are naturally curious about-"_

 _"My husband is a solicitor._ _Not_ _royalty."_

* * *

He patted her hands as their eyes met in the mirror above the dresser. "I thought you said you wanted to be Ida B. Wells, not Rona Barrett."

Her face contorted as she shook her head, an odd smirk dancing on her lips. Slowly, she unwound her arms from around his torso as she murmured, "You and she are good at deflecting things you don't want to talk about." With a quick inhale, she turned away from his reflection as she stepped into her heels.

A hum rose in her throat, a fractured melody of a song that struck a phantom sense of recognition in him. Something familiar. Something he heard before. Something he couldn't immediately place. "What's that from?" he asked, not wanting her to keep talking about his ex-wife.

She shrugged as she reached for her bag. "I don't know. Just something I heard on the oldies station." She glanced down at her wrist. "I've got to run. My flight is in four hours."

"Flight?" he asked as he turned to her, doing up his shirt's buttons.

She nodded as she turned back around. "Michael and I are going to Boston. The Chargers are playing the Pats on Sunday."

"See you next week," he said as she kissed his lips quickly before she turned away, leaving the hotel room.

* * *

 _"But, you must know the average person who listens to your radio station doesn't know that. They only know you're the Countess of Lavenham."_

 _Another long – uncomfortable – moment of silence. "The focus of the article will be my business."_

 _"Yes. Absolutely."_

 _A deep sigh. "Let's get on with it then."_

 _"Great."_

 _A deep male voice rings out. "Lady Lavenham, can you shift to the left? The light is better."_

 _"Don't mind, Johnny. He's just going to get some candids."_

* * *

Gregory sighed as he walked into his study, dropping his briefcase onto his desk. Three steps later and he was at the bar cart, reaching for the crystal decanter of scotch. The amber liquid splashed into the glass and he turned away, sipping deeply. Back at his desk, he placed the glass aside as he glanced at the briefcase. A moment later, the locks popped and he looked down into the interior. The envelope with copies of the tapes and the image proofs lay on top of the bound depositions. With a sigh, he sank into his chair and took another deep sip, watching the bulky package.

It wasn't hard to have one of the flunkies in the Tech Department make copies of everything. His secretary at _The Sentinel's_ office returned the originals to Vanessa's editor before he even knew they were missing. His right hand clutched the smooth crystal glass as his left hand reached out and dumped the contents of the envelope onto his desk.

Four tapes.

12 sheets of photo proofs.

He _did_ read the draft of Vanessa's article about Olivia. He _did_ listen to the tapes. He _did_ look at the photos. But, he'd never admit it to anyone. Not even Vanessa.

Vanessa.

She was probably the only mistress who ever expected _less_ from a relationship than he did. After Annie, Vanessa and the lack of commitment she offered was…appealing. No commitment, but _all_ the perks that came with one.

He pulled open the bottom desk drawer, groping around in the dark exterior until he felt it. The ancient handheld tape recorder. With a sigh, he pulled it out of the drawer and reached for the fourth tape. The only one he had left to finish. He slid the tape in and pressed down, the lid closing with a resounding click. He reached for the top proof sheet, gazing down at the images of Olivia.

* * *

 _"I heard a rumor that you didn't always enjoy owning WHOC."_

 _A sheepish chuckle. "Did Ken tell you that? I think it is fairer to say that I was initially unprepared for how to be a CEO. I was very…"_

 _Silence. "Very?"_

 _Another long silence. "Green. At first. But, I came into my own."_

 _"It's remarkable and admirable. There aren't many female CEOs in your industry."_

 _"I didn't set out to be remarkable or admirable."_

 _"I think that women who are remarkable and admirable never set out to be that way. They become that way, through circumstance and hard work. And, by purposely ignoring the Parental Advisory labels on records and refusing to pay FCC obscenity fines in the late 80s."_

 _The sound of Olivia's surprised laughter. "That defiance didn't last very long though, did it? I let the station accrue about four weeks of fines before we finally paid and started playing the edited songs."_

" _It earned you admiration from the local teenagers."_

" _Well, that's something, I suppose. It made my children popular in school. But, I grew up in London during the days of pirate radio. I couldn't stop my DJs from playing songs just become some uptight_ _American_ _mother doesn't want her child to hear the word 'fuck' in a song. As a mother, I knew my children heard far worse from their father and grandfather when they were watching baseball games or football matches."_

 _"So, you're_ _not_ _a First Amendment advocate?"_

 _"Well, it cannot be denied that, as an Englishwoman, I find Americans_ _far_ _too-"_

* * *

Gregory's finger lingered on the Pause button as Olivia's words echoed in the sudden silence of his memory. _Well, it cannot be denied..._

Cannot be denied.

Vanessa's aimless humming this afternoon as she left the hotel room.

 _Something here inside  
Cannot be denied_

He leaned back in the chair, resting against the leather cushion. The house was quiet. Too quiet. He hadn't heard Olivia's voice in this house in years. Not since the days after the baby died, when she lived here briefly, before she ran away to the cruise ship. When he combed through her credit card statements, desperate to know what she was doing. When they were still married. _I knew my children heard far worse from their father and grandfather when they were watching baseball games or football matches_.

When they were still married.

When they were a family.

He sighed, disgust and self-loathing coursing through him. He shoved the tape recorder away, ignoring the loud crash as it clattered off the desk and landed on the floor. He took another deeper sip from his glass as the now remembered song overtook the sound of Olivia's voice.

 _Yet today, my love has flown away  
I am without my love_

He blamed Annie for this sudden bout of regret and nostalgia. He found it was easy to blame his ex-wife for most _everything_ these days. But, the way she dragged out their divorce brought out all these old feelings. Primarily that he never should have married her in the first place. It was doomed from the start. He had never married one of his mistresses before. Of course, he wouldn't have had to marry her if Olivia was still his wife. _Have you_ _ever_ _thought about what I need?_ His eyes dropped as he remembered the way Olivia's voice cracked as they stood in the lobby of the hotel after the earthquake before she went back to London. _The_ _only_ _thing I needed was for you to stop hating me. For you to stop blaming me for our son dying._

He took another deep sip and closed his eyes as the liquor warmed his chest. His right hand tingled, remembering the way her cheek felt against it in the hospital as they worried about Caitlin and Sean. _Thank you for pulling me into the doorway. You could have just taken Trey…and you_ _didn't_ _. You saved me_.

He sighed deeply, his eyes still closed. He easily closed the Annie chapter of his life. But, Olivia… Olivia _continued_ to be an ever-present constant in his life, the pages of her chapter fluttering to the beginning every time he thought of her. His right hand tingled whenever he thought of her.

 _When a lovely flame dies  
Smoke gets in your eyes_

* * *

 _A/N #2: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" (written by Jerome Kern and Otto Harbach)._


	6. The Shadow of Your Smile

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Six: "The Shadow of Your Smile"

* * *

 _A/N #1: This chapter is part of the Evelyn series of stories. It's also a preview for an upcoming story._

* * *

 _February 2017_

"Who are these people?"

Olivia blinked and forced herself to look up. Her right shoulder was throbbing and the pain killer hadn't taken effect yet. "Who?" she murmured, wincing as the sofa shifted when Evy leaned over to better see the photo Casey held out.

"The older couple with you and Gregory," he answered, his index finger tapping against the print. Nicola sat up and looked over her father's shoulder, her blue eyes crinkled with curiosity.

She forced her eyes to the photo, immediately struck by how _young_ they looked. How Gregory's arm was looped around her waist as she held Caitlin. She inhaled sharply, her eyes moving over her husband's face. She could feel his arm, his hand molded to her hip. She could feel his lips against her ear as he whispered, _I couldn't have done this without you_. "Th-they're his grandparents. Rosina and Arturo."

"What?!" Evy exclaimed, reaching for the picture. "But, I thought Dad never kept in touch with his family!"

Olivia closed her eyes, hearing the accusation in her daughter's question. Their youngest child detested it when she was kept out of family secrets and stories. "It was quite on accident we saw them," she explained through clenched teeth, her shoulder radiating.

It was because of her. Because of what she suggested to Gregory.

* * *

 _December 1976_

"Oh, I do _love_ Christmas decorations," Olivia sighed, lingering in front of one of the store's display windows. The glass was lined with twinkling lights, illuminating a holiday scene behind the glass. "Especially in New York."

"It's cold," Gregory grumbled as he crouched down. She shook her head and glanced over as he tucked the thick quilt around their infant daughter. But, Caitlin was snug in her pushchair, only her eyes and nose visible from beneath her coat, her hat, and layers of blankets.

"If you think this is bad, wait until we're in London in three days," she giggled as he stood, rubbing his hands. For a man who insisted it was cold, he stubbornly refused to wear his leather gloves. Her mother would _never_ put up with that when she saw him.

He wrapped his arm around her as they resumed their walk down the street back to their hotel. They stopped off in New York for a few days, rather than going straight on to London. Caitlin's pediatrician recommended the extended layover so the child would have an easier time adjusting to the time change. Olivia was relieved at the suggestion. She didn't tell anyone, not even Gregory, that she was _terrified_ of disturbing their daughter's sleep routine in even the slightest way. Caitlin was a finicky baby. She _still_ wasn't sleeping completely through the night. But so far, other than it taking longer for her to fall sleep in New York, she didn't seem to be showing any signs of trouble with the time change. Her gloved hands tensed around the handles of the pushchair. She hoped that trend would continue when they finally arrived in London. "I think she'll sleep for the sitter while we're at the opera tonight," she mused. "With all this fresh air, she'll-

"She'll sleep like a baby?" he asked as they arrived back at their hotel. The doorman jumped to attention and smiled cordially as he held open the door for them.

"Ha, ha," she replied drolly as they walked through the gilded lobby to the bank of elevators. The elevator operator was nowhere to be seen and the ascending light was already illuminated. She crouched low, freeing her child from the blankets she lay between. The nine-month-old grinned, revealing several new teeth as she flailed her freed arms. "You'll be a good girl tonight while Mummy and Daddy go out, won't you, darling?" The baby's only response was to throw her body back into the pushchair and shriek loudly, a wide grin on her face. She beamed, still as utterly enchanted with her child as she was the day she was born. Caitlin was perfect. Simply perfect. And, she was all theirs.

She felt Gregory's hands on her shoulders, massaging them through her thick winter coat. "Mummy and Daddy could just go out dancing _instead_ of going to the opera," he growled in her ear, nibbling at her ear lobe, as she pulled off Caitlin's mittens.

"Unfortunately, Mummy and Daddy already paid for tickets to _Die Zauberflote_ ," she pointed out as she stood slowly, letting his arms go around her. He kissed her softly, causing her to shiver, as she continued, "Box seats, remember?"

"Fine," he groaned against her mouth and she smiled again, pecking his lips before she turned back to Caitlin. As she pulled the knit hat off the little girl and fluffed her blonde curls, she heard Gregory mutter, "After all this fresh air, _I'll_ try not to sleep like a baby during the first act."

She laughed as she chucked her daughter's chin and picked her up. "Very funny," she said softly as she kissed her daughter's nose. Caitlin giggled and reached out, tugging on her dark hair. "Damn!" she hissed, brushing her hair away as her daughter merely grinned and giggled. For the last several weeks, yanking on her hair and laughing had become Caitlin's favorite game.

"See?" he teased. "Even _she's_ unhappy you're forcing me to go to the opera."

She shifted and peeked over at her husband. Was now the right time to suggest it? He _was_ in a good mood. He had been in a good mood since they arrived in New York City two days ago. When her idea first took hold. "I promise to make it up to you tomorrow when I let you have a lie in," she said, smiling up at him against the nervous butterflies in her stomach. "Doesn't that sound nice for a Sunday morning?"

He glanced up, his eyes narrowed. Had he heard something in her voice? "Does that mean tomorrow is my last Sunday of freedom before you force me spend it in a church?"

Oh. _That_. Again. "Yes. And, on Christmas Day too. Mummy expects it."

"Fine." He reached out, cupping the back of her head for a long moment before his hand ran over her hair. A moment later, he reached out and drew her against him. Caitlin giggled, no doubt thinking it was some sort of game that she was sandwiched between her parents. "For you."

She glanced up, blinking. "Thank you, darling." With a deep inhale, she forced herself to say, "Speaking of church…well, in a way- _ow_!" Caitlin giggled again, tightly holding a wad of her dark hair in her chubby fist. As Gregory freed her hair from their daughter's fist, she blurted out, "Do you think we might go to your mother's grave tomorrow?"

His eyes sharpened as Caitlin latched onto his finger, tugging on it enthusiastically. She cringed. That wasn't at _all_ the way she wanted to suggest it. But, it was done. There was no going back. " _What_?"

Her heart began to beat faster as she shifted Caitlin to her other hip. "Your mother's grave. Because, well… Darling, i-it's Christmas. We could…" Pay our respects. Lay a wreath. Say a prayer, not that they were religious in any way. But, it's what her Catholic upbringing suggested they do. He watched her silently, skepticism and something else written across his face. The _something else_ was pain. Regret rose in her throat and she began to shake her head when she saw him look down. Look down at their daughter. Caitlin's head had fallen back as she gazed up in rapturous attention at the glittering chandelier above them. He had been terrified when she told him she was pregnant. He was afraid of being a bad father. Of becoming _his_ father. But, Caitlin had changed them. Changed _him_. He became exactly the father she knew he would be: loving and devoted to his child. He would never hurt Caitlin the way his father hurt him. In a way, their daughter had healed some of the still-open wounds from his childhood. But, his mother… That wound would _never_ heal.

She heard him sigh and as her lips formed the first syllable of his name, she heard him whisper, "Alright."

She blinked, not quite sure she heard him as Caitlin angled around to her father. "Alright?" she stuttered.

He nodded, still watching their child as she babbled, her chubby arms extended as she reached for him. "Alright. We'll go to her grave."

* * *

Olivia winced at the cold air as she climbed out of the chauffeured car, holding the box with the Christmas wreath. The concierge had been helpful with arranging for the hotel's florist to put it together on short notice. But, the fragrance at the balsam fir branches wafted through the thin cardboard, perfuming the crisp winter afternoon. The weak winter sun shone overhead, frequently hidden behind smatterings of bright white clouds. "Looks like snow, ya know!" she heard the driver say as he held open the back door.

She smiled politely as Gregory climbed out, Caitlin in his arms. The baby clung to him, again wrapped tight in a thick blanket. Or, he clung to her – she wasn't quite sure. The pompom on top of the baby's knit hat bounced as she babbled to herself in Gregory's arms. "It's just this way, darling," she said, shivering as a gust of wind howled through the cemetery. The groundskeeper had drawn them a map, directing them to the location of Evelyn's grave. Gregory didn't remember the way. He hadn't gone since the day they buried her. Clutching the box to her, she reached for Gregory's hand, squeezing gently. He didn't say anything, but she felt him squeeze back. He had been quiet for most of the morning, his expression suggesting he was lost in deep thought.

The frozen ground crunched beneath their feet and she involuntarily glanced over her shoulder. The chauffeur was already back in the idling car, most likely content for them to take as long as possible. _Slap-slap-slap_. She knew that sound as she silently counted the gravestones on their right. Caitlin's mitten-clad hands were clapping against Gregory's cheeks. It was something she was fond of doing as she giggled uncontrollably. She slowed as they reached the twenty-fifth marker. "It's here," she said softly, her eyes moving over the letters carved into the small stone.

 _Evelyn Marincola Richards_

 _1932-1959_

Olivia looked up at her husband, not surprised to see his expression frozen like the stone. She leaned into him, listening as Caitlin gurgled, as she wrapped her free arm around his waist. "They argued – Bruce and my grandparents," she heard him say and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "After the funeral. He wanted some cheap flat stone to mark her grave. My grandparents were furious. They said my mother deserved more. They must have done this. He never would've paid for this."

"Why didn't you ever come here before?" she asked softly.

"For what?" he murmured, his voice oddly lighthearted and she knew it was for Caitlin's benefit. _Slap-slap-slap_. She looked up in time to see the baby grin as she continued to pat her hands against his face. "It was just a reminder that my mother was dead. There was nothing for me here. Nothing here could protect me from Bruce."

Her heart sank as he watched him kiss Caitlin's forehead. "And, now?" she murmured.

Gregory sighed as their daughter snuggled against him, her face turned into his neck. "I have you and Caity now," he said simply, but she heard the way his voice caught. "A-and, it would have been nice if my mother could have known you both."

She nodded and pushed herself up on her toes, kissing him softly. "I wish I could've met her," she whispered back, cupping the back of his head. _I wish she hadn't died when you were nine. I wish you had grown up with her. I wish she was still here for you_. A moment later, she stepped away from him, her long hair stirring in the wind. She crouched low and placed the box on the ground. The rich fragrance of the balsam increased when she opened the lid. Gently, she lifted the wreath out and laid it against the gravestone. She fluffed the bright red bow, wanting it to be perfect. Unlike Bette, she never had to worry about impressing her husband's mother. She never had to argue with her mother-in-law about the way she kept her house. She never had to pretend she looked forward to her mother-in-law's visits.

With a sigh of regret, Olivia pushed herself up and turned back to her husband and daughter. As she did, she saw someone watching them. She squinted her eyes, looking back at the person who stood half-way between them and the chauffeured car. It was…a woman, she realized as she moved back to Gregory's side. An older woman. He was rubbing Caitlin's back and looking down at the gravestone. He hadn't seen the woman. "Darling, there's someone there," she began, her eyes narrowed as he turned to look. It was a _very_ old woman. "Do you know her?"

A long moment of silence passed between them before she finally heard him reply, "I think it's my grandmother."

By then, the older woman had traversed the space between them. Olivia could see the tears welling in her eyes as she leaned heavily on her cane. A plaid wool scarf was wrapped around her hair as her cloth coat shrouded her slender frame. "Greggy?" she gasped. "Oh, Greggy, is it really you?" Olivia heard a smattering of rapid-fire Italian as the older woman blessed herself. Did she even _know_ his grandmother's name?

"Hi, Nonna."

She stepped aside, watching as the older woman began to sob and reached out for Gregory. A lump rose in her throat as a moment later, she watched Gregory shift Caitlin to his left arm as his right arm came up around his grandmother. His grandmother was petite. That was how she make eye contact with him over the older woman's head. His expression was unreadable as Caitlin giggled and resumed clapping her hands against his cheeks.

* * *

Olivia leaned against the doorjamb and watched as Gregory's grandfather, Arturo, bounced Caitlin on his knee. The baby's teeth were bared as she shrieked in delight, kicking her feet against his legs. She folded her arms against her chest, smiling to herself as she watched the older man kiss her head and murmur, " _Piccola_."

Gregory was on the sofa next to them, in deep conversation about the Yankees with his mother's brother and his oldest son. _Call me Uncle Joey!_ he exclaimed before he pulled her in for a boisterous hug. She had seen _The Godfather_ with Gregory. She knew what Italian families were like. But, nothing prepared for just how _loud_ the Marincolas were. Shouting passed for normal conversation. She shook her head and fingered her ear lobe, watching as Joey's wife, Connie, set out serving bowls and dishes on the small dining room table. She wandered over, rubbing her palms against her plaid pants. "Can I help with…anything?"

Connie looked up and shook her head. "No. Ma doesn't let no one in her kitchen, not even me. I'm lucky she lets me set her table." They chuckled together for a moment and it struck Olivia how similar her own mother and Rosina were. She had a feeling the two women would get along. "By the way, don't be surprised when Ma makes you a plate. It's gonna be loaded." She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "She thinks you're too skinny."

Olivia frowned. "That's a bad thing?" she asked, glancing down self-consciously at her waist, as Connie burst out laughing.

"For an Italian mother, it is!" She was still chuckling as she went back into the kitchen, passing Rosina.

Olivia stepped to the side as she placed a tray piled high with sliced bread near the end. "It all smells delicious," she said as Rosina turned to her and beamed, gesturing her closer.

"Oh, it's not much. Just a little snack," the older woman replied and Olivia had a feeling that was a _gross_ understatement. She patted her hand and pulled her over to the wall. Several framed photos were arranged around Rosina and Arturo's wedding photo. "That's my Evelyn," she said softly, pointing to the top corner. "After she finished school."

She nodded and looked back at the teenage girl. "She's beautiful," she murmured. How innocent Evelyn looked as she beamed up at the photographer, her curly dark hair framing her heart-shaped face. "I-I've only seen one picture of her, but she was older." She felt Rosina's eyes on her as if she was waiting for her to say more. She looked into the older woman's wrinkled face and said diplomatically, "Gregory never went home again after he left for university. He didn't take much when he left."

"Bruce Richards. _Che stronzo_!" she spat as her eyes hardened. Olivia nodded, not understanding the Italian words, but understanding the sentiment. She shook her head and looked back to the photo of her dead daughter. "I don't like thinking about him. He _ruined_ my Evelyn's life. The way he treated her…" she trailed off, shaking her head. "We thought he was a nice boy. Not Italian, but he was polite. Respectful. He came back from the war. He went to college. He was going to work as an accountant. W-we thought he would take _care_ of her." She looked over, blinking her dark brown eyes. Gregory's eyes, Olivia realized with a start. Gregory had his grandmother's eyes. "But, he changed. He became a drunk. He lost his job. He didn't like Evelyn speaking Italian to me and her father. He couldn't understand it. She and Greggy couldn't come over without him."

She sighed and took the older woman's hand. "Gregory doesn't speak about him. I've never even met him." But, she knew how horrible he was to Gregory. She knew about the detestable things he did to him. "Leaving for university was the best thing for Gregory."

"And, he's happy now, isn't he?" Rosina squeezed her hand. Her eyes widened as she waited, almost as if she couldn't rest easy until she was reassured. "Greggy's happy?" She nodded in reply, her throat tight and it was suddenly hard to speak. His grandmother sighed in relief and blinked her eyes. "My Evelyn would've _loved_ you," she said, her hand brushing against her hair before she cupped her face. She nodded again, tears burning her eyes, as the older woman continued, "She would've been so happy to see Greggy get married and become a father. And, she would have adored little Caitlin!" Her smile fell as her voice dropped and she said, "It's odd to think she's a grandmother now when she didn't even live to see her thirtieth birthday." She fell quiet for a long moment and looked past her into the living room.

Conversations lulled and there was a surprising moment of silence in the Marincola home. The record player hissed as the needle found the next song on the record. A moment later, Bobby Darin's mournful voice rose from the moment of silence.

 _The shadow of your smile  
When you are gone  
Will color all my dreams  
And light the dawn_

Olivia glanced over her shoulder, seeing Caitlin back in Gregory's arms as the older man gestured for him to lean closer. "We lost him when Evelyn died," she heard Rosina murmur, her voice thick. "Bruce wouldn't-" She shook her head, as if the taste of his name on her lips disgusted her. And, maybe it did. "We heard a little news about him every now and again – you know, neighborhood chitchat – but it wasn't the same. He should've lived with us. We should've raised him. We've never forgiven ourselves."

She bit the corner of her lip, remembering the way Gregory hugged her to him on their last trip to New York City. _They left me with him. They left, just like everyone else I loved_. "I'm glad we went to Evelyn's grave today. I'm glad we saw you. I'm glad Gregory is able to spend this time with you." Her throat tightened, remembering the way they followed Rosina into the small flat and Gregory remarked it was just the way he remembered it. She remembered the way his grandfather stood in the living room, staring open-mouthed at Gregory for a long moment before he burst into tears. _Greggy was always Arturo's favorite_ , Rosina whispered in her ear as the two men embraced. _He was our first grandchild_. Her husband was so loved by this family he had been cruelly separated from when he was a child. "If my mother were here, she'd say the important thing was that we're together now."

Rosina nodded and patted her cheek affectionately. "I'm glad Greggy has you." She turned away and removed the framed photo of teenage Evelyn from the wall. "And, Greggy should have this. He should have his mother with him."

Olivia nodded as she took the frame and held it over her heart. "Thank you. This will mean a lot to him." She glanced back at the wall cluttered with framed pictures of Joey, Connie, and their children. "I should send you some photos of us."

Laughter erupted from the living room and they turned. Joey's oldest daughter, Jeannie, was taking a photo of him, Gregory, and Arturo as his other daughter, Gloria, held Caitlin. "Hey, Ma! Olivia! Get in here!" Joey called out.

Caitlin reached for her as she neared her and she took her, kissing her head as the baby burrowed against her chest. "Jeannie, get one of Ma and Pop with them first," she heard Joey say as she stood next to Gregory. Caitlin's back pressed into her chest as she held the baby in front of her. His arm wrapped tight around her waist as she touched his face and asked, "Alright?"

Gregory nodded, his eyes surprisingly clear. All the pain and sadness from earlier in the day was gone. He leaned down, his mouth against her ear as he replied, "I couldn't have done this without you."

She closed her eyes and nodded, feeling the way Caity squirmed against her, as his forehead rested against hers. This was all she ever wanted for him. For him to know that he was loved. For him to know that he was _more_ than good enough. For him to know that he was nothing at all like his father. For all the pain of his childhood to be outweighed by all the good they had now. "I love you," she whispered as she heard Jeannie say, "Ok, smile like you love Nonna's _braciole_!"

* * *

 _February 2017_

"Mom?"

Olivia gasped as her eyes flew open. Gregory's words rang in her ears, echoing like church bells. She could still hear the way Jeannie's camera flashed. She could still feel the way Caitlin's little body tensed up, the flash startling her. But, she wasn't standing next to Gregory in his grandparent's living room. Instead, she was in her living room. Three sets of eyes gazed back at her, varying expressions of sympathy reflected. She was _sick_ of seeing them look at her like that. Like they pitied her. Like she was something fragile who needed to be protected. Like she was something they needed to take care of. "Are you ok?" she heard Evy ask, her hand on her thigh.

"Fine," she said as she moved to the edge of the sofa and pushed herself up. Her skin crawled and she could feel her thundering in her chest. She needed to get out of here. She needed to get away. She placed the old photo on the coffee table, ignoring the way the three of them continued to watch her. Like they were waiting for something. "I-I'm going to go lay down."

"Want help?" Casey asked at the same time Evy said, "I'll help you upstairs."

"I don't want help!" she snapped, the frustration boiling over. Casey frowned as Evy shrank back. It wasn't _just_ them. It was daily phone calls from Caitlin and Sean – one from each of them. Sometimes, _multiple_ calls. It was the estate lawyer and his unending paperwork. It was the accountant and _his_ unending paperwork. It was Ben and his irritated voice messages. The walls were all collapsing in on her and she closed her eyes, trying not to remember the shadow of Gregory's smile in the old photograph. The way his forehead felt against hers. Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard as her injured shoulder howled. "I'm just going to lay down. I don't need to be monitored morning, noon, and night!"

Only Nicola nodded, like she understood that she didn't need to be babysat. "Want me to bring you tea, Nana?"

She forced herself to simply shake her head, thought she did manage to pat the girl's shoulder with her good hand as she passed. The sound of whispers sprang up behind her, no doubt Evy urgently consulting with her older brother on what they should do about her. She signed, rubbing her forehead. They couldn't do anything though. No one could. The only thing she needed was the one thing _no_ one could give her.

She needed Gregory back.

She needed him alive.

* * *

 _A/N #2: The chapter title and lyrics are from "The Shadow of Your Smile" (music by Johnny Mandel, lyrics by Paul Francis Webster)._


	7. Here You Come Again

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Seven: "Here You Come Again"

 _August 1988_

"I don't think the children had a rather enjoyable summer."

Gregory looked over at his father-in-law. "Oh?" Their letters were pleasant enough. That could have been due to Sean writing them. The eight-year-old still had a rather innocent view of the world. Gregory was determined to keep his son that way as long as possible.

"July was nothing but rain," Thomas explained. He nodded, sidestepping a woman walking her small spaniel. "And, of course, they're used to California. They had a hard time with how cool it's been."

"I'm sure they didn't mind _that_ much. They love you and Barbara." Thomas glanced over, a small grin dancing on his lips. "They were bouncing off the walls before they left Sunset Beach." It exasperated himself and Olivia to no end. Back in mid-June, in the days leading up to their flight, Caitlin and Sean had been unbearable. The pent-up excitement had turned their usually reasonably well-behaved children into annoying monsters.

"They'll certainly be happy to see _you_." He nodded again, but said nothing in the face of Thomas' smile. Of _course_ they would be happy when they saw him in the morning. It had been five weeks since they _had_ seen him. He would have seen them tonight, but he arrived later than expected. His children were, Barbara apologetically explained, sound asleep. That was when he felt a now _familiar_ anger flood through him. He had been cursed with the feeling ever since Olivia nonchalantly explained she and the children would be staying in London longer than the three weeks they had planned. The three weeks they planned on staying in London as a family. Together.

 _"Be reasonable, Gregory. Time apart would be…well, good for us at this stage."_

 _He pushed out of his mind their endless fighting. His fury over her second DUI, less than six months after her first. Her temper tantrum when she found out about him and his intern. Instead, he glared, his left hand clenched around his glass of wine. "So, I just_ _go_ _back to Sunset Beach?"_

 _She nodded, glancing across the aisle and he turned, following her gaze. Caitlin and Sean were snug in their first-class seats, the overhead lights off as the sounds of the engines lulled them to sleep. "Yes. There's a case you couldn't get out of." Their eyes met again as she continued reciting the story she would deliver to their children and her parents. "We're lucky you were able to get away for the three weeks you did."_

She had thought of everything. Planned everything, right down to the minute she dropped her bombshell on him. He hadn't thought to wonder while the children each toted an extra suitcase. He hadn't questioned it when she said the travel agent needed to reissue their tickets. He hadn't contributed anything to her story when she broke the news to her parents and their two young children. It was _her_ fiasco. Let _her_ play it out to the bitter end.

But now, it was mid-August. Five weeks had gone by. He had letters and postcards from the children. Phone calls with them. But, not her. Nothing from her. For a vague moment, he wondered how she explained the lack of contact to Barbara. A half-chuckle rose tiredly in his throat. His mother-in-law noticed _everything_.

"What was that?" Thomas asked as they came to a stop in front of a brick building with a red door. _The Greyhound_. It was their neighborhood pub. It was the pub where he asked Thomas for permission to marry Olivia.

"Nothing," he lied, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Ready for a pint."

His father-in-law smiled knowingly. "You're ready to see your wife."

He forced a half-smile. It was the one thing he and Olivia never spoke of, but which they both agreed on. The façade of a happy marriage was maintained. For their children. For her parents.

"I'm sure she wouldn't have gone out with Anthony and Rosie if she had known you were coming," Thomas called over his shoulder as he pushed open the door.

He only rolled his eyes in reply, grateful that Thomas was facing the other direction and didn't see. He wouldn't _quite_ say that. Olivia's drinking had been out of control this year. His wife no longer needed an excuse to knock back a drink…or, as of late, an entire bottle.

The pub was crowded, country music drifting out of the jukebox in the corner. God, what was it with the British and their love of the American country-western genre? He followed Thomas through the crowd, ignoring the hearty laughter and the clinking of glass pints. As he passed a small table beneath a framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth, he couldn't help but remember when he and Thomas sat there thirteen years ago. When nerves coursed through him as he waited for Olivia's father to reply. _I need her, Thomas. I can't imagine my life without her._ When his throat swelled as he listened to Thomas' reply. _I'd be proud to have you for a son._ Now, a middle-aged couple sat there, facing each other but silent as they drank their pints.

He cleared his throat and looked away, his head pounding. It was the time change. It was the frustration of the last five weeks. It was that he was at the mercy of his wife's decision. And, he _hated_ that he had no control over her decision. Over her actions. Over the last five weeks.

" _I'll tell you what you do," Del suggested as he adjusted his putting stance. He had been back for one week. He and Del were on the thirteenth hole and the conversation had turned to conversation about their respective wives. His first – and only – wife, while Del was already on his third. "You ignore her the way she's ignoring you."_

" _That's the ridiculous behavior of a child."_

 _Del scoffed, his teeth clenched around the cigar. "That's what wives do. Hell, that's what_ _Olivia_ _does!" When he glanced up questioningly, his friend continued, "Didn't she ignore the hell out of you before I introduced you two?"_

 _He slowly nodded, remembering how she was before they began dating. She wouldn't give him the time of day. Her relationship with AJ Deschanel may have ended, but she wouldn't so much as look at him, let alone speak to him._

" _Then, when you go back to London for her and the kids, she'll be_ _begging_ _you to forgive her."_

"How far into your cups are you?" he heard Thomas ask as they turned a slight corner. There they all were at the usual table. Anthony, Olivia's cousin. Rosie, his wife. Olivia, _his_ wife. And, a man with dark hair and dark eyes he didn't recognize. The stranger sat close to his wife, his arm practically around her shoulders as they both looked up. Olivia's face registered blatant shock as she blinked, her lips parted in surprise.

"Not too far into them," Anthony laughed as he stood, his hand extended to Gregory. He nodded, shaking Anthony's hand. But, it was Olivia he watched. Olivia, he couldn't tear his eyes from. Olivia, who he hadn't seen in five weeks. Since the day she finally spoke to him all those years ago, they had _never_ been apart this long. Now, here she was, with another man pressed against her. A rush of irritation flooded through him even as their eyes met.

 _All you gotta do  
Is smile that smile  
And there go all my defenses_

She pushed herself up as Thomas began, "Francis! What a surprise to see you!"

Francis. Francis. He struggled to place the name as Olivia reached for his hand. He saw the dazzling smile on her face for the briefest of moments before she threw her arms around him. "Oh, darling," she sighed, her breath dancing against his ear. "You came back."

His arms went around her involuntarily, drawing her in against him. Came back? Came back? It was never his choice to leave! "Olivia-," he began before she pressed her lips to his. He sighed against her mouth as her finger tips danced through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. The frustration and anger melted away as he remembered what it felt like for her to stand in his embrace. For him to taste her lips. For her hands to cup his face as she gazed up at him.

* * *

She shifted against him, her chest pressed into his side as she murmured something beneath her breath. Slowly, his eyes opened and he untangled his hand from her hair. "Francis," he said quietly into the dark. It was a slight movement, but he felt her flinch. It was her middle name, but he knew she knew what he meant.

Who is he?

Did you fuck him?

Do you love him?

Are you coming home?

Are you leaving me?

Do you still love me?

A moment later, he felt her leg slip between his as she propped herself up onto her right arm. The moonlight falling in through the sheer curtains let him see he way she blinked sleepily. The way her bruised and swollen lips parted in a sigh. The way her left hand came up to brush his face before her fingers combed through his sweaty hair. He heard her repeat the name before she chuckled slightly and lowered her face. "Francis is Frankie," she whispered as she nuzzled his neck, her hand trailing down his bare chest. "Frankie Doyle."

He inhaled sharply as she kissed him, swallowing up the curse that rose in his throat. Frankie Doyle. He should have _known_. The ringleader of the infamous band of morons she dated as a teenager. The first boy she ever _did_ date. With a grunt, he rolled over and pinned her beneath him. She only watched him, blinking her blue eyes bashfully as her arms wound around his neck. His shadow loomed over her for a moment before he leaned down, kissing her hard.

Reminding her as she started against him.

Reminding himself as he pushed her legs apart.

Here they went again.

* * *

 _A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Here You Come Again" (written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil.)_


	8. Pink Moon

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Eight: "Pink Moon"

 _June 1997_

Competing conversations crested in the living room, coming together like some kind of kind of perfectly imperfect symphony. Gregory walked through the crowd, feeling something like a maestro, as he nodded and smiled at the various guests. It might have been a party in honor of Vanessa Hart, but he was the main attraction. His left hand jumped and he realized it was squeezing the air where his wife's hand would have been. He stopped where he was and glanced around, eventually turning in a small circle.

Where _was_ his wife?

As it so often happened, they were separated at the parties they hosted. Like the Red Sea, they parted to work the crowd from each side. No guest was ever left ungreeted. No appetizer tray was ever empty. He felt himself flinch as he tried not to remember _other_ parties they hosted. When his wife would drink herself into oblivion. When she would disappear for hours. When she would reappear, her makeup smudged and her hair mussed and her dress wrinkled.

He reached for a flute of champagne from a passing tray, forcing his mind away from their other parties. That was when he heard her laugh and he turned. After all these years, it was unmistakable and something he could always discern from the crowd. Now, he watched her over the rim as she smiled at the person she was talking to. To anyone else, she was the image of a gracious hostess. He narrowed his eyes, watching her closer. To him, he could see the way her hand trembled against her throat. The way her blue eyes danced. The way her flesh was pale and pasty beneath her makeup.

He thought back to the way he cornered her in their bathroom, the way he placed his hands on her shoulders. When he felt a tremor go through her entire body. It _wasn't_ a tremor because of his touch. Something was _wrong_.

His brow furrowed as he watched her slip away from the crowd and out the patio door. Decidedly, he left the barely-touched flute on the corner of a side table as he followed her outside.

* * *

Olivia stumbled down the shallow steps, her heel catching on gap between the stone pavers on the patio. Miraculously, no guests had strayed from the house but her. She was alone. The noise from the party faded away, but she still felt its echo coursing through her chest. Through her entire body. Through her soul. But, that wasn't all.

She was pregnant.

She bit her lip as she walked straight to the edge of the pool before she abruptly stopped. Of all nights to have to play Gregory's merry hostess. The toe of her strappy sandals hovered over the undulating surface of the pool. Falling into the pool was one way to be excused from the rest of tonight's festivities. Surely Gregory would take pity on her and let her go into exile if she was soaked through with chlorinated pool water.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes as her hovering foot returned to the solid patio. How pathetic was she that she seriously considered tossing herself into the pool to get out of this party? Her right hand danced in the air above her still-flat abdomen. She should be thrilled. She should be throwing herself into Gregory's arms and blurting out the news, not contemplating a moonlight swim. She should be happy. But, she wasn't.

She's terrified.

This might not be Gregory's child.

She moaned, the fingers of her left hand dancing against her mouth as her right hand pressed against her stomach before she yanked it away. The insistent reality zipped around her brain, sling-shotting from one corner to the other and back again.

She didn't want this baby if it wasn't Gregory's, she realized sadly as her skull throbbed. A moment later, another sad thought bubbled to the front of her mind: except…she _did_ want this baby.

She stiffened, recognizing that the air around her shifted. A moment later, she took in a whiff of Gregory's cologne before she felt his arms lock around her waist. His hands settled on her stomach and she flinched as she inhaled sharply. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. She felt his breath against her ear, but he didn't say anything as she covered her hands with his. He couldn't know. Not now. Not yet. With a sauciness she didn't feel, she dropped her voice and said, "Be careful. My husband might see us."

* * *

His chest pressed against her back as he wrapped his arms around her. He leaned in, turning his face into her dark hair as he felt her startle. He frowned as he felt her hands brush against his, her fingers pressed into his wrists. She signed and a moment later, he felt her hands cover his own. "Be careful," he heard her say softly. "My husband might see us."

He felt the breath catch in his throat as her fingers ran over his wedding band. It was like that night weeks ago at Grenadine's. When she taunted and teased him from the bar. That night had been like the first night, he remembered as his arms tightened around her. The way she turned him on. The way he wanted her right then and there. That night had been incendiary.

Was that what tonight's strange behavior was about? A continuation of that night's game?

"Perhaps," he said, his mouth brushing against her right ear as he caressed her hips through her dress, "he won't see us in the pool house?" God, he'd take her right there if she'd let him, he realized as her silk dress rippled beneath his palms.

Slowly, he felt her turn away from him and he nearly cried out as the night air filled the space between their bodies. Like a ballerina, she rotated slowly, her blue eyes sharp. "I love my husband," she murmured as his hands slipped up her waist to her chest. But, her voice… She sounded…broken.

He watched her closely before he cupped her face. "I know, Liv," he replied, forgetting the game as his thumbs rubbed across her cheekbones.

* * *

She shook her head as a sob rose in her throat. She didn't deserve him. He was confused as he watched her, his palms warm against her face. He deserved a better wife. One who wouldn't have broken his heart with so many affairs. One who never would have allowed herself to get pregnant by someone else.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she shook her head. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. Her headache returned with a vengeance as she felt him tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She couldn't keep thinking about this. Not tonight. Not here. Not in this moment. If she did, he would figure it out. Somehow. He was Gregory. He figured _everything_ out. She needed to distract him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as she pressed herself against him. She immediately felt him respond, his arms tightening around her as he crushed her to him. Their lips were hungry against each other's as she felt him drag her across the patio. She didn't care where they went. She didn't care. She just wanted to stop thinking about his baby. About who its father could be. About how she was lying to her husband.

She felt her back bump into the French door of the pool house, her head bouncing against the glass. She gasped for air when his mouth broke away from hers, cursing softly as his left hand fumbled with the doorknob. It finally opened and they fell into the small room. Their arms went around each other again as he kicked the door shut. The metal vertical blinds clanged against the door as she fell back into the sofa, pulling him with her.

She wanted him.

She wanted to forget.

Most of all, she wanted this baby to be Gregory's.

* * *

Reflected light from the pool danced on the walls and over them. Her hands pushed his suit coat from his shoulders and his arms shook it free. He felt her tugging to loosen his silk tie as his hands found the hem of her long dress. He pushed it up, the silk moving easily up her body as it bunched around her waist. He groaned, his hand running over the lace edges of her silk stockings and down her thigh.

He heard her gasp as his fingers stroked between her legs. His heart thundered in his chest as he felt her reach for his belt, fumbling with the leather. "For God's sake," she gasped, fighting the belt as her legs came up around him.

* * *

She heard him chuckle and she watched as he kneeled up. Slowly, as his eyes burned into hers, she watched him slowly slip the belt free from its buckle. With a groan, she reached up, encouraging him to move faster. She wanted him. _Now_. She wanted to feel him in her, touching her. But, he only smirked and pushed her hand away as he slowly pulled the belt from his waist. One. Excruciating. Loop. At. A. Time.

He always loved hearing her beg.

Moaning, she pushed herself up quickly as she reached for him. As she did, her hair fell out of the bobby pins holding it back. And, as her hair fell, the stunning truth slammed into her, stopping her heart.

Nothing she could do would make this baby his.

Sleeping with him now wouldn't change what had already been done.

What had already been created.

As she gasped for breath, she felt everything crumble. Gregory tossed his belt aside as he reached for her hips. But, she had already begun to cry. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. She raised her hands to her face, sobbing into her palms.

* * *

He dropped his belt and grabbed his wife, his hands molded to her hips. As he pulled her to him, he heard her sob. His head flew up, watching as her face collapsed, the lust from earlier replaced with devastation. As if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over them, everything stilled. He knelt on the floor between her legs, watching as sobs raked her body. "Liv?" he asked, hearing the worry and bewilderment in his own voice. Her only response was the way she shook her head and threw herself against him, pressed to his chest. Slowly, his arms came around her as his mind raced. How quickly she moved from wanton desire to gulping sobs. He sighed her name as his hand ran over her head. Slowly, she looked up, tears staining her cheeks and running her eye makeup.

* * *

She watched the incredulousness in his expression as his thumbs brushed the tears from her face. Confusion radiated from him as he cupped her face and drew her in, their foreheads touching. She felt a fresh round of sobs rise in her throat as she heard him whisper, "Please tell me what's wrong." Slowly, she opened her eyes, seeing the way he knelt between her leg and the way her dress bunched around her waist. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. She coughed back a sob as she slowly looked up. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. "I'm sorry," she gasped, blurting out the first lie she could think of as her hands danced against his shoulder.

"For what?" he asked, his tone even and controlled as his palms warmed her face.

"Fo-for the last party we hosted."

He didn't say anything, but she felt his reaction. In the way his hands quirked against her cheeks. In the way a flinch went through his body. In the way a spark of pain flashed across his face. It was the same way he looked when he walked into their bedroom all those months ago, welcomed with twisted sheets and the unmistakable stench of sex.

Was it that night? That night that cause this?

He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now.

* * *

He exhaled deeply as a flush of anger went through him and he looked away. Not this. Not now. He put that night – that party, that fiasco – out of his mind. She gasped his name and cupped his face, gently turning him back to her. Her blue eyes were bright and wide as she looked back at him, her chin trembling. "Darling, please. Oh, please believe me, darling," she sobbed. Her fingers trembled against his cheek as she sniffled, her eyes poring into his. "Please," she whispered.

Gently, his arms came up around her as he hugged her against him. Her sigh of relief danced against his neck as he murmured into her hair, "I do." Because he did.

He always did.

* * *

She lost track of how much time passed as he kneeled between her legs, hugging her against him. His chest was warm and his breathing steady, calming the hysteria that consumed her. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. She felt his fingers combed through her hair, gently pulling the bobby pins from the locks. With a sigh, she pressed her palms against his chest and pushed herself up. Her eyes burned from the hot tears and bleeding mascara. The sound of his steady breathing had lulled her into something almost calm-like as she watched him. His eyes glinted as he watched her quietly, but she could see his mind working. Of course it would be, she realized with a sigh. His lawyer's mind never stopped, even when it was about her. Then again, she had never given reason for him to _not_ second guess everything she did. She reached out, her fingers brushing over the line of buttons on his shirt. "We're awful hosts," she murmured.

He shrugged and cupped face as he sighed deeply. "No one's coming looking for us," he offered, looking deep into her swollen eyes. "I suppose we're not as important as we think."

* * *

Something of a half-smile danced across her lips as she slowly retied his tie. Her face was still, dried tears and bleeding mascara smudged beneath her eyes. He reached up, covering her hands with his own. But, the panic from earlier was…gone. It was gone just as suddenly as it appeared. "We should go back," she whispered as she gripped his shoulder and pushed herself up. He followed her with his eyes as his hands gently smoothed out her long dress. Gently, he held her hips as she sighed and turned her attention back to him. "Darling, your knees."

With one last gentle squeeze of her hips, he stood. She knew him well. Indeed, his knees protested the movement after so long of crouching before her. "Olivia," he began as he reached for her right hand, "are you alright?" Really, alright?

She hesitated for a heartbeat before she nodded even as she blinked back fresh tears. He sighed, their fingers threading together. How had they become these people? People who could bare their bodies, but not their secrets. "I-I just," she began, her voice thick, "I'm just drowning, darling." He felt himself frown as she said, "Drowning in regret."

As her head fell forward, he reached out, drawing her against his chest. Her face turned into his throat as he hugged her tightly. "Hold onto me, Liv. Hold on. I won't let you drown." He wanted their marriage to work more than life. He wanted his wife back. He wanted her with him. He didn't want to keep remembering their past mistakes.

* * *

"I won't let you drown."

He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now.

She gripped him ferociously, feeling the way he kissed her head. She'd stay here forever if she could, warm and safe in his embrace. If she moved away, she would be able to feel him slipping away, even as she desperately reached out for him. This wouldn't last. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now. She bit her lip as he pulled back, running his hands over her upper arms. Would he believe how desperately she loved him? How desperately she wanted to make things right? How desperately she wanted this baby to be his? Theirs?

He tucked his dress shirt back into his suit pants as he glanced around. "We look exactly like what we _didn't_ do," she said softly as he retrieved his suit coat from the floor. She heard him chuckle as he draped the coat around her shoulders before he cupped her chin. Her throat tightened as she saw the affection shining in his eyes as she reached up to smooth his hair back. He couldn't know. Not yet. Not now.

She felt his arm go around her waist and she leaned against him as he led her out of the pool house. "It shouldn't be scandalous," he said as they stepped back onto the patio. "We _are_ married."

"Americans are such prudes," she sniffed beneath her breath as they stopped by the edge of the pool. Out the corner of her eye, she saw the bright lights from the house and the distant sound of laughter and conversation echoed through the still hair. His arm was snug around her as she snuggled back against his chest. "Let's just stay here," she murmured and closed her eyes. If they didn't go back to the house, she wouldn't have to think about the home pregnancy hidden in her bathroom drawer. He rubbed her arm and she felt his chin against her head. "I mean it, darling. They don't need us."

* * *

She nuzzled against him, her head tucked against his neck. He glanced down, seeing her eyes closed as she sighed. "Here?" he asked as he glanced around the deserted patio. The pool house was more private than this.

A moment later, he felt her hand slip into his. As their fingers locked together, she shifted against him as she looked up. "Oh," she sighed breathlessly and he followed her gaze up to the sky. The full moon hung low, radiant and glowing. "Do you remember that song?"

He shook his head as she turned, her back pressed against his chest. His arms locked around her and it didn't escape his notice that they stood this way just a short time ago. "I don't," he whispered in her ear.

" _I saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way_ ," she murmured, her head resting back on his left shoulder as she watched the moon. But, he saw her face. It was calm as it reflected the celestial light.

"You love your husband you said?" he asked, watching the moon. She trembled even as she nodded, her head rubbing against his shoulder. He kissed the side of her head, nuzzling her throat as he whispered, "Good…because I love my wife."

 _And none of you stand so tall  
Pink moon gonna get you all_

* * *

 _A/N: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Pink Moon" (written by Nick Drake.)_


	9. Lovefool

_A/N #1: This chapter is part of the Evelyn series of stories._

* * *

(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)

Chapter Nine: "Lovefool"

 _July 1997_

Olivia blinked tiredly as the words of the report blurred together. The papers fluttered as they fell forward and she jumped awake, not even realizing her arms had given up on holding them. Perhaps trying to read it while lying on the sofa in her office at the station was a mistake. She was exhausted. Starving and exhausted. At the moment, mostly exhausted. With a sigh, her right hand rubbed her swollen belly as the baby fluttered beneath her flesh. Being pregnant in her fourth decade was significantly more challenging than it had been in her second decade. She sighed again as she knowingly closed her eyes, giving into the exhaustion. The advertising report could wait. Sleep, however, could not.

The gentle drone of the midday DJ's voice easily lulled her mind to a warm and comforting place. But, then, from the faraway world of her outer office, she could hear Gregory's deep voice as he greeted her secretary. She frowned, forcing herself to squint up as he strode into her office. Bother. Of all the times for him to not run late. Now, she was content to skip their lunch date for a nap. When the door closed behind him, she muttered, "Don't start."

He chuckled and unbuttoned his suit coat, his Cheshire grin impossible to miss. "Start what?" he whispered against her lips as he kissed her. He kneeled next to her, his hand covering hers on her stomach.

"Whatever _I-told-you-so_ remark that has you grinning like a school boy."

His fingers laced through her swollen ones and he shrugged as she stifled a yawn. "I plead the Fifth," he said simply as he leaned in, kissing her again. The report slipped from her hand as she cupped his cheek, sighing. "Though," he added, his eyes scanning the length of her body, "nothing is a greater thrill than walking in and finding you in a state of undress."

With a tired chuckle, she shrugged helplessly. "I had to," she explained, the hint of a whine cloaking her words. But, it was true. Her pants were unfastened and the waist rolled down, exposing her pregnant stomach. "My clothes don't fit properly anymore and- and I'm _not_ ready to wear maternity clothes yet." In her fourth decade, she was not ready – or willing – to surrender her vanity yet.

He rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, Olivia." She could see the thoughts running through his scolding expression. _It isn't as if we can't afford it. You're being ridiculous._ But, he didn't understand. He had been at her side for all four of her pregnancies, but only as a mere _witness_. Their children had been inside her, changing her body, affecting her mood, weakening her eyesight.

A tentative knock at the door interrupted her reply. "Come in, Summer," she called out as she angled her head around her husband's body.

A split second later, the door opened and her secretary poked her head in. "Christy just confirmed the booking. The Cardigans will be guests on the morning show on August 15th."

She ignored the way Gregory snickered as she asked, "In studio guests?"

"Yup. They've agreed to an acoustic performance of _Lovefool_ and two other songs of their choosing."

"Perfect. Make sure Ken knows so he can review the contract."

Her secretary nodded and closed the door at precisely the same moment she heard her husband repeat, " _Lovefool_?"

With a dramatic sigh, she shoved the advertising report aside and swung her legs off the sofa. "I don't know, darling," she replied as he stood and took her hands, helping her up. "I don't _actually_ listen to the music the station plays."

He glanced over at the stereo system in the corner as the bass from an R&B song caused the speakers to vibrate. "I suppose that's just background noise then." She brushed her hair out of her eyes as he reached out, gently and carefully rolling up the waist of her pants. "I'm sure you know it."

"Know what?" she murmured as his fingers attempted to fasten the hook to the eye.

"The song, of course."

Her eyes widened as her gasp of a laugh echoed in the office. He swore beneath his breath, giving up on the pants as he instead held onto her hips. She tugged her silk blouse down as far as the material would allow as she explained, "I only listen to the station so I know what the DJs are saying."

"Sing. It." His insistence was palpable as he rubbed her hips.

Now, it was her turn to roll her eyes as she shook her head, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth. "It's some silly pop song about a pathetic little girl in love with a boy." His eyebrow arched and his head tilted slightly, but he said nothing else in reply. An amused expression danced across his face and she recognized the determination and patience brimming beneath it. He wasn't going to budge. He could wait all day. Her own stomach growled in rebellion and she was suddenly reminded that she could _not_ wait. Now that she was standing, the hunger from earlier quickly gained the upper hand over the exhaustion. "Fi- _ine_ ," she sighed dramatically. She cleared her throat and brushed her hair back, studiously avoiding the satisfaction brimming in his dark brown eyes. " _So I cry and I beg for you to love me, love me_ ," she sang softly as she stepped closer to him. " _Say that you love me._ "

Her belly pressed against him as his arms enfolded her and he drew her in. "This is the crap our kids are listening to?"

She shrugged as she leaned against him, her palms pressed into his chest. "Caitlin, maybe. Not Sean." No, their son was too fond of blaring the songs of dead rappers at a well _beyond_ polite volume. With a simple smile, he chucked her chin and she angled her body so she could turn her face into his throat. It was only when she was barefoot that they could stand like this because her heels would help to make up the difference in their heights. As she closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne, she realized she had been that pathetic little girl. Maybe that's why the song struck a chord within in her the first time she heard it. It was her story, set to Swedish pop. More than two decades ago, she had cried and begged for Gregory to love her, not that he knew that. No, her crying and begging had been _far_ more duplicitous.

His chest rumbled as she heard him ask, "Are you hungry?"

She forced her eyes open and looked up. "Of _course_ I am." He rubbed her upper arms and kissed her forehead as she stepped back. She watched as he slipped his arms out of his suit coat and promptly draped it around her shoulders. She smirked and shrank into the coat as he drew the lapels in, indeed hiding her ill-fitting blouse, unfastened pants, and exposed belly from the world. "Couldn't be seen in public with a half-dressed woman?" she asked.

There it was again. That Cheshire grin. "Liv," he replied, his voice low and even, "I've never minded you half-dressed _anywhere_."

* * *

 _A/N #2: The chapter title and lyrics are from "Lovefool" (written by Peter Svensson and Nina Persson)._


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